


In The Company of A Wolf

by the_bees_tales9229



Category: Assassin's Creed 3 - Fandom, Assassin's Creed: Tyranny of King Washington, Connor Kenway/Ratonhnhake:ton, Wolf Connor
Genre: AU of Tyranny of King Washington, Action, Alternate Universe, Big Disclaimer - Freeform, F/M, Fanfiction, Flashbacks, Horror, Inspired by a fairy tale, Much Fanfic, Romance, Survival, not mine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_bees_tales9229/pseuds/the_bees_tales9229
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ATTENTION: This fanfiction is currently facing a long hiatus as its writers are still working out various projects that are both related and non-related with this one. Please be patient and we thank you for your comments and support.]A desolate, ruined world would not hinder the people’s longing for a new life and a love Ratonhnhaké:ton knows still exists between him and a reincarnate, different version of his lover. On that winter season, a spring of change is about to blossom soon and their desires and memories for each other will be the kindling fire of a new revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: In the meager room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: A desolate, ruined world would not hinder the people’s longing for a new life and a love Ratonhnhaké:ton knows still exists between him and a reincarnate, different version of his lover. On that winter season, a spring of change is about to blossom soon and their desires and memories for each other will be the kindling fire of a new revolution.

**Prologue: In the meager room**

 

The humble light of the small fire made their shadows tall against the meager walls of the small empty room and the lulling, peaceful sounds of snowy breeze outside the small window is making Ratonhnhaké:ton content. Arlette owns this meager room she has fondly wanted to share with him and they lie together on an old but clean bed with his left arm loosely wrapped on her hips while she lies asleep on his side, cuddling his chest and her legs are wrapped possessively around his hips. Although the blankets and fur coats on top of them and the fire give enough warmth, the heat of their lovemaking hours ago seems sufficient for them; he would gladly stay like this forever, but he knew he had to be ready to leave soon if he wishes to end this madness, this mad, illusory world.

He and his associates have sent word, asking help from his tribe and some rebels staying in Old John’s Town to get here in Charlestown to help with the fortifications to protect these villagers from displacement and death; in a week or so, they will be here but he would have to leave earlier. Tomorrow morning, he would have already eaten breakfast and travel west to Concord to meet another group of rebels who plan to infiltrate Monmouth first, then hunt down Washington’s top generals, reclaim settlements for the people who lost their homes, etc…

But would these plans and actions yield something better? If he and the people do dethrone Washington and a new, idyllic life unfolds, would he be… trapped here? But wouldn’t that be good, to be with a good life, to be with Arlette and his friends? And if he fails, what would happen to him and his memories, his _other_ life? What would happen to him _here_?

He shakes these thoughts away and he feels her stirring, her legs suddenly shifting as if she was struggling against something, her mouth opening to grunt or moan something; it was clear she was having a fitful dream. Ratonhnhaké:ton gently grasped her arm before she could fall off the small bed as she garbled something incomprehensible; she wakes up, startled, having awakened from a nightmare and sighs. Blearily, she sits up and brushes away the sleep in her eyes as Ratonhnhaké:ton pulls her closer to him to prevent her from falling off the bed, wrapping his arms around her torso and kisses the visible line of a scar near the back of her neck.

“You were dreaming,” he says soothingly and brushes away a tendril of dark red hair off her face, the remnants of perspiration on her exquisite skin glisten against the warm, dim fire.

She chuckles humorlessly. “A nightmare.” Then she shakes her head and bows, as she recalls. “I was dreaming of being back in Ajaccio, but it is different, horrible. The island is desolate and the seas full of corpses and the sun never shone through the smoke of the fires.” She shivers and her voice cracks as she continues. “It is strange how you thought you have buried your past so you can move forward and yet have them resurface in your nightmares. _Je me sens pathétique._ ” (I feel pathetic.)

Ratonhnhaké:ton sighs and licks his lips, thinking what to say to comfort her, though knowing her, comfort is a luxury she knew was on a short supply and are taken away by the greedy. He says gently, “They are just dreams and memories, as you said. Do not dwell on it. You are here, alive, along with other people you care and cares about you.”

Arlette smiles but there is no happiness in it; she gazes at him, bringing her knees up to her chest to wrap them in her arms and pouts. “How long will that last?” Her tone was cynical and low.

“As long as we live,” he immediately said, his eyebrows narrowed and serious. “We will not break, Arlette, and let Washington win. Our struggles against him rage on even within all of us.”

Arlette’s mirthless smile slowly disappears and it is replaced with a hopeful, awed look. Her eyes are round and misty, and he could see her pondering within the depths of her dark blue eyes; she does not retort or agree with his previous statement and simply gazes back at him, telling him numerous things that could not be said. He studies the subtle expressions and movements across her face and understands she could be studying his face as well, reflecting on their lives, their hopes and dreams, struggles and victories…

Ratonhnhaké:ton breaks the silence with a murmured statement. “We must sleep.” They are tired and talking of nightmares and their situation should be saved for a new day.

She does not answer him and her delicate lips widens into a small smile, her previous sentiment on her nightmare disappears; he smiles back as she shakes her head and says, “I’d rather stay awake and see you leave, _mon amour_ (my love). I’ll cook the six rabbit meat for you and the others. Timothy will help me.” Arlette expounds, but her face is stern as if a mother is planning her schedule for her children and she would not take any protest, but the twinkle in her eyes suggest her concern for him. “And I know a good, healthy mare that could help in your travels.”

His face softens, his gaze linger on her face and see her jaw suddenly setting hard as if suppressing something and her lips becoming a hard line; she swallows, breathes deeply and her nostrils flare as she exhales so much more breath, so much of her soul… And he looks away, guilty. “I—You know as much as I do that I do not want to leave you.”

“I know,” she says simply, placing a hand on his arm and soothes him. “But I will see you again. I know things will change, because today a lot of things have changed.”

He gazes at her again, a bit doubtful and annoyed, but not at her but at the fact that he understands the uncertainty, the realistic way of life; no matter how much they all plan or anticipate, something else will happen, something dire. And just being here, playing in the Apple’s will, with Washington brainwashed with his own greed, they are trapped in this alternate, sadistic, cruel life. He asks in his gruff, somber tone: “Do you think that is enough? Enough to turn the tide for our benefit?”

Arlette doesn’t answer immediately and her jaw hardens, biting and suppressing something again—tears, perhaps? Her fears? Anger? She stares somewhere else and she hunches; he sees more of her scars in her lower back and he looks away quickly, cursing at himself. _You should watch your tongue,_ he said to himself.

“I do not have an answer for that,” she grimly says, her eyes on the wall in front of them. “I just do what I know is good for everyone, including you. I accept whatever inevitability there is. But I will not cower or hide, not for myself or for anyone.”

He looks at her again and he could feel his whole being melting; his eyes linger at her soft skin and down her back towards where her buttocks would be where the visible lines of her scars are drawn; he traces one of them, the longest one that reaches towards the back of her neck, with a gentle play of his fingers.

She giggles and the muscles on her back roll and crinkle, clenching the longest line of scar beneath her beautiful flesh. “That tickles.”

He smiles and scoots closer to her, pulling the blanket and fur coats to cover himself and her body to add warmth; stretching his legs out, he cocoons her within his arms and body; he kisses the top of her head, and then slowly makes his way to kiss behind her left ear. He whispers, “I apologize.”

Confused, she turns her head to see his face. “For what?”

“For being insensitive of your concern,” he whispers at her temple and kisses that spot; he languidly wraps his left arm around her torso while the other searches for her hand and holds it.

“I understand,” she simply answers, but giggles as his kisses lowers down to her ear, travelling downwards, but she does not crane her neck for him to kiss that part. “You have a long way to go.” She says again as Ratonhnhaké:ton moans pleadingly, begging to kiss her neck.

“But I will leave this place with you in my heart,” he tells her between moaning and kissing her ear. He murmurs, “I am proud of you.”

Arlette makes a small laugh and utters, “And I am as well of you.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton was wrong to think that that the events that had transpired will not change anything, as it will not be forgotten and _that_ is enough. After all, couldn’t he count the fortune of his and Arlette’s meeting as anything significant? It is enough that she and her people will not be complacent of simply eluding and fearing death anymore; they are willing—no, they are angry, hungry—for change! And he is familiar with that feeling, which is a sense of inner righteousness and ambition to create and build something better, for their sakes and for others to come. If he will stay in this new world created by the Apple, he will at least live it greatly, with her by his side…

He whimpers as he feels the ache in his heart, quivering at the thought of leaving her; the image of her waiting, hoping, praying he is alive as he fights Washington’s soldiers, while she helps the villagers start anew and making sure none of Washington’s soldiers gets here to destroy their place; or worse, bring them to Valley Forge to be dealt with as the ‘King’ sees fit… No, that will never happen!

He breathes in the scent of her hair and the smells of ember and honey oil mix together with her natural, saccharine scent; he wraps his arm around her more tightly and kisses the back of her hand, her fingers still entwined with his. He feels his blood rush around his body in a speed to liven and prepare him, his eyes travelled the soft, warm plains of her figure: the long, tousled curly red hair hung long past her hips; the curve of her muscled back and the small wrinkles of the skin in her neck as she cranes her head to gaze at him; her shoulders and arms are tanned and slightly freckled, and the proud hills of muscle flex on her upper arms; a calloused, dainty hand reaches to caress his nose playfully and he crinkles his face at her light touch; she blushes at the dark, hungry gaze he gives her, turning her face away shyly. Her glorious breasts are pressed against her red fur coat she took for warmth, her knees tucked between her and her languid arms; a peek of the creases of her flesh in her abdomen and stomach are appetizing to look at, as are her very round hips and buttocks that hide underneath her, cushioning the dark groin and towards her wonderful sex; although covered by the coat, he knows the shape of her round, soft thighs, her calloused and muscled lower legs and feet; his heart pounded at the recollection of the inner strength of her legs while it drove on and on their ecstasy with the warmth—no, heat of her legs and her nimble feet that grazed his back when he surrendered to her. He cannot deny this, this intimacy and the emotions they share, even under the Apple’s illusion (or perhaps, their collected emotions have a play on the Apple’s abilities, he is not sure), nor even the way they had groped and fondled each other, their unified cries and whispers of desire, his uncontrollable thrust against her groin as they fulfill their need for each other…

He aggressively pulls away the red fur coat covering her and tosses it aside; startled at his action, he smirks and finds her startled mewl and expression melt into relief so endearing, so delicious, he dips his face to nuzzle her neck, a low growling emanates low from his abdominal muscles travel to her neck.

“Shhh,” she shushes tenderly as he stops his assault and exhales a throaty moan against her forehead; she gently pulls her entwined hand from his and she curls her arm around his neck and gingerly pulls his face towards hers as she cranes her neck to plant a wet kiss near his lips. “I know, Ratonhnhaké:ton, I know. I love you.”

He smiles, feeling the words of her love warm his heart even further; she further plants wet kisses across his jaw, her tongue tentatively feeling the beginning of stubble. He sighs contentedly, chuckles at the ticklish feeling of her tongue; he then grasps her chin and pulls her away from his face to see hers, to see the flushed cheeks that redden her face and the dark freckles across her nose; he wants to see her dark blue eyes, as dark and lustful as his brown, to confirm her want, her _need_ to unify with him; and as he did, her nostrils flared as she took irregular breaths, her whole body quivering and her arms shivering and clinging on his neck. Her delicate lips moist and open, demanding contact on his flesh; she gently pries his fingers away from her chin and begins kissing them, her tongue licking each rough pad and tasting the salt of his skin; her lips reaches his palm and he feels a kindling at the very flesh of the palm she kisses; the kindling spreads through his arm and then in his torso and up to his head, making his sights swim as he stares hungrily at Arlette, whose eyes are closed as she focuses her kissing on his hand. He pulls that hand away from her, however, and she cries in protest but was answered with a swift, sloppy kiss, their nose meeting as he dipped his head to make contact. She shifts her body to face him, still not removing themselves from the sloppy kiss Ratonhnhaké:ton delivered, and carefully wraps her legs around his hips, not wanting to bump into his sensitive sex… not yet, anyway. She laughs as the sloppy kiss became playful, his lips lightly sucking on her upper lip and wrinkling his nose against hers, while his fingers tickle her waist and armpits; his lips quickly travel down to the sensitive spot in her neck to amplify his tickling round on her.

“Stop, no more tickling!” she managed to say between breaths of laughter; he was laughing against her neck, immersed in her thick red hair. Still tickling her, he stealthily makes his way towards her breasts and clamps his mouth gently on her right nipple; her reaction was spontaneous and she gasps at the sudden change of his foreplay. Her hands instantly flew to his hair, taking fistfuls of it; her legs went rigid at first, but soon wrapped around his hips tighter as she pushes and arches her body closer to him. Sensing her body reacting to his touch, one arm hooks around her body to pull her closer to him and brings her up to grasp one round cheek of her buttocks; she shifts her legs to kneel in front of him while his legs fold underneath her and he slowly settles her down to sit comfortably on his folded legs without pulling his hand away from her buttocks. His other hand gently cupped her other breast and began to fondle it, his thumb grazing the dark pink peak of her nipple.

“O-oh!” She suddenly gasps as she feels his teeth lightly clamp on her breast and the twitch of his penis gets her attention. He moves away from her right breast and clamps his mouth on the other, using the flat of his tongue to lap her nipple gently and slowly, savoring her. His hand underneath her wiggles its way towards her vulva to caress her and she quickly draws her hand to help him.

With a shaky voice, she instructs him. “Here, put your finger here.”

He chuckles as he gazes at her, his lips still grasping her nipple; she chuckles back and kisses his forehead, elated at his boldness. She feels him twitch against her belly once again as his fingers massage her flesh around her opening and she could not help but cry in delight and close her eyes. With his lips on her breasts and his fingers on her sex, her whole body burns and she writhes against him, her arms shakily clinging around his back and shoulders for support.

He lets go of kissing her breasts and gazes at her face, which was a rictus of her uninhibited desire and pleasure. He smiles as her half-opened eyelids flutter at his touch, her long dark eyelashes like butterfly wings, and her mouth hangs open to reveal her moist, pink mouth and tongue, licking her teeth and upper lip as she moans his name. He feels her hips move in the manner of procreating and legs buckling next to his hips, knowing that her climax is near.

“Do you want to lie down with me between your legs?” he asks after he gives her a light kiss on her left nipple. A throaty moan of delight was her only answer and that was enough for him to move.

She lies down on the mattress urgently and spreads her thighs for him as he props himself prone and comfortable between her limbs. His hand and mouth dip inside her and she could not help but throw her body in a spasm of sexual joy, moaning incomprehensible words; he chuckles against her pink, hot flesh and continues his deed. He laps his tongue slowly around her vulva while his hand massages her groin and clitoral area, eliciting gasps and sobs from her mouth. Her hands had flown on his hair and she pulls them as if they are reins for her to control; her legs tighten around his head, urging him on, but she tries to be careful not to smother him and he had placed his arms to lock her upper thighs in place so she would not move too violently and uncontrollably.

He carefully opens the folds of her sex and sinks his tongue in and tastes more of her salty-sweet, tangy essence, and he feels satisfied to pleasure her like this, dipping his tongue further and his mouth suddenly rooting to the small pearl that could set a woman involuntarily begging for more. He suckles on the pearl and the fleshy folds that surround it, as how he would suckle to an open, ripe fruit, drinking its juices. He feels her twitch and quiver, her legs stretching wide and shaking as her very toes curl at the ecstasy he is giving her; her fingers change from pulling at his hair to curling and massaging his head, and he looks up to see her belly roll and her hips sway violently, struggling against his huge arms that lock her in place against the sheets; he alternates his quick sucking to a slow lapping with his tongue, mindful to caress every inch of her sex. He chuckles again, feeling bold and happy to deliver her such service and she nearly sits up from the delicious vibration his laugh caused, the sensation jolting her in a loud gasp and throwing her to the momentum near her climax.

“Oh, Ratonhnhaké:ton!” She squeals and she pulls him forward her sex even more, moving her hips to meet him. He soon throws his energy with much vigor and aggression, even grazing his teeth slightly against the inner folds of her sex, but she does not care—she thrives in it! Her sobs of begging and gasps mix with his grunt and moans against her flesh, his nose grazing against her folds, his tongue licking and his mouth suckling, and then she could feel his fingers slowly entering all the while he performs cunnilingus on her. His fingers glide in and out, curling upward to touch a sensitive nerve, and then pushing down below her, putting pressure and pushing against her clenching inner walls as she has intercourse with his skillful fingers—!

“Aahhh!” Arlette screams and gasps all at the same time, arching her body against his mouth and hand; he took this opportunity to grab her hips and pull her lower body up towards his mouth. Now slightly kneeling and hunched, Ratonhnhaké:ton’s mouth is still clamped against her damp, warm sex as he feels her body flow her climax out, her thighs slightly clenching around his shoulders and every muscle in her coils in unison; her vagina moves with the torrent of pleasure, displacing it all against his mouth.

Arlette exhales a breath of exhaustion and relief, he gently settles her hips and legs down, with his whole body sliding next to her. Propping one arm to settle his head and gaze down at her, a small satisfied smirk crosses his face, still coated with his deed and her sticky arousal. He licks his mouth and he swallows her cum, looking like a very satisfied and mischievous god, the glow on his dark, sensuous skin still glistens with his desire. He casually licks the fingers he used to pleasure her, and then brings it down to caress the shaft of his penis, his gaze on her quiet supine form.

Her eyes are open, her lids hooded and her eyelashes like red curtains against her dark blue orbs; her gaze is at the ceiling, but he knows the ceiling is not her interest. Her nostrils flare as she slowly takes and exhales air to relax, still coming down from the hot, wet peak he has brought on her. He observes her still arms placed in either side of her and her chest slowly heaving up and down; her breasts harbor some light pink marks where his mouth and fingers had been, especially her nipples, its peaks still hard and moist. Her voluminous, long hair appears like fire against the dull white sheets of the mattress, splayed all around her head and body, and almost trailing down the floor. Then she shifts her eyes to him and she audibly sighs with content, her eyes misty and delicate pink lips slightly open in awe.

Ratonhnhaké:ton smiles and settles his arm down and stretches to relax; his back is sore from his prone and hunched position, but they are nothing, just minor things he can endure and can go away. But their time together is precious and this is something he cannot forget…especially since this is an alternate life, this is something conjured by minds and as long as Washington has the Apple in his hands, this is all his own illusions. However, he cannot deny the emotions he and the people are experiencing and dealing with; no, this one especially, their _love,_ it cannot be denied, not here or even when he defeats Washington and everything will be right again, Ratonhnhaké:ton will be with her no matter what happens…

Arlette reaches a hand towards his cheek and caresses it, her eyes studying his sudden sorrowful expression. “Don’t feel left out. I will pleasure you, too.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinks rapidly and tries to smile, but the inevitability of what the dawn will bring is tugging at his heart once again. He could see, though, that she was only trying to lighten the mood as a clouded expression spreads in her face. Her warm smile only masks that they are thinking the same things.

He shakes his head and removes her hand from his cheek, a warm, slow smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “There is no need. Giving you pleasure is enough. Besides, I wish to make a lasting impression on you.”

She giggles slyly and wraps her arms and legs around him, to engulf him with her body as much as she can. She slaps her hand playfully against his large chest and places her fingers on his right nipple, writing patterns on his skin. “But what should we do with your _petit ami_?” (little friend)

Ratonhnhaké:ton laughs at her words and he feels her hands seductively travel to his penis, half erect and lying flat against his lower stomach. He groans and bites his lower lip as Arlette’s hands massage his penis. He shakily gropes the same arm responsible in giving him pleasure and continues to quiver against her sensual touch, feeling his blood rush to fill around his hips and travelling to the very tip of his sex until small drops of his seed appear to coat the dark head of his penis. He then grasps her hips to pull her towards him and she complies, placing herself on top of him as his penis elongates and hardens against her palms. She lowers herself against his and they continue until they are truly exhausted, left only with the buzzing of their second lovemaking.

The humble light of the fire slowly dies and the darkness creeps the room, save from the moon light seeping from the small window, blocked with some wood and cloth to trap the heat inside the room. Wrapped voluptuously on his chest, Arlette slumbers as Ratonhnhaké:ton is left pondering of his future lonesomeness and beyond after the fall of Washington’s rule. He smiles serenely at the thought a domestic and family life with Arlette, a life he knows will not happen in his _other_ life, before sleep finally takes hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is loosely inspired by the Little Red Riding Hood and the precursor of how my and my friend's OC, Arlette, was created.
> 
> When we were just starting out to play AC3, news and trailers of the DLC Tyranny of King Washington was everywhere and me and my friend started to brainstorm a fan fiction. We still didn't know the whole story of TOKW, but we did it nevertheless. Unfortunately, as we played more of the AC3 game and walkthroughs appeared of the TOKW, we realize our story was waaaaay too out-of-synch with AC3 and TOKW's plots. SO we abandoned this and started working on Arlette de Badeau's (our OC) background and her role and eventually did 'In Louisiana With Love' while I alone wrote 'The Urge to Knit'; both fanfics are snippets of a veeery long story, our own sequel for Connor if you will (since Connor ain't gettin' a sequel :( ).
> 
> But as we're still finishing the next chapter for 'In Louisiana...', I thought I'd bring back this old fanfic back, revise it a little and made it loosely alluding to Little Red Riding Hood [but it's not prominent, the allusions, and of course, it's obvious who the wolf is and who Red is here in the story].
> 
> This story will run on four chapters only and I hope you enjoy this!


	2. Chapter One: A Dreary Day in Charlestown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: A desolate, ruined world would not hinder the people’s longing for a new life and a love Ratonhnhaké:ton knows still exists between him and a reincarnate, different version of his lover. On that winter season, a spring of change is about to blossom soon and their desires and memories for each other will be the kindling fire of a new revolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There have been changes and there are eight chapters in this story, including prologue and epilogue.
> 
> More explanations below.

**Chapter One: A Dreary Day in Charlestown** _  
_

_Everything blurs in this vision, from memories in the distant past up to the most trivial things; but soon it becomes clearer, the visions, and the familiar setting of the humble, lush field of green flora stretch far and wide until it stops in the Southwest corner, down towards the white sand damp from the foam of the Mediterranean Sea. She is laughing hard, deep in her youthful, jovial spirit that the reason for her happiness is lost or perhaps there was none at all, only that there is happiness; she is running barefoot, racing against a young man who looks almost like her, but with brown hair and a scarred, crooked nose. Despite the slight deformity, he is nevertheless good-looking, and his wide smile—perhaps the widest she would see—enhances his childishness. The two of them run, feeling the wind whip against their hair and clothes, until they reach the beach and they dive into the salty blue-green foam, letting the torrent of the strong water carry them until, as they turn around to look back, they can see the vastness of their island home, with its endless space of grass, bearing trees, old Etruscan fortresses, cliffs littered with humble houses and manors, with their crisp white, beige, brown walls and Baroque-Gothic roofs and towers…_

_Then a wave lapses over her head and blurs her vision, and her joy is washed away and replaced with dread and fear!_

_The strong smell of smoke and decay wrinkled their noses. She whips her head around to look for the boy, who she was playing with. She spots him, in danger, flailing his arms and legs as he is trapped in a motley crew of… she cannot tell from her angle, as she is far away from him. He had been near her seconds ago but she does not linger on it as she swims urgently to get to him; she paddles her arms and kicks against the water, but obstacles of garbage—rocks, broken wood, damp everyday objects floating around—kept getting in her way. She shoves something round, bobbing up and down in a dull manner and realizes, as she touches the round thing—with its dark slime and mucus coating her palm, it slowly turned its form to face her and she screams a bloodcurdling scream! She was touching a human head, burned, with its skin melting off its scalp and what was left of its hair sticking out of its inner flesh! Its lifeless eyes is partially sealed with its broken eyelid and she screams some more, shoving the thing away from her, and it soon sinks down to the bottom of the water, along with the rest of the objects and corpses._

_She nears the boy and pushes away the floating debris, and realizes they are all human bodies: burned, decapitated, mutilated, stabbed several times—_

_“Ne vous inquiétez pas,” (Do not worry!) she cries out desperately. “Je suis ici! Je vous dois! Vous êtes en sécurité!” (I am here! I have you! You are safe!) She says to him in an effort to calm him down, but with her own voice shrilly it is evident she is just as fearful as he._

_When she approaches the boy, she sees his teeth chatter and his eyes are wide with horror, his cheeks stained with blood and tears; she hopes that the blood on his face is not his. She pulls him towards the shore and they desperately swim until their hands could cling on the soft, damp sand. Crawling and exhausted, she looks up to see the whole island ablaze with fire and the midday sun hidden in smoke. The sounds of breaking structure and screams of terror and death fill their ears; she pushes herself up to her feet and quickly attends to the boy, but she stops as she feels him not even breathing._

_He lies on his stomach, unmoving as a pool of blood begin to form underneath him; she could feel the warmth of her body disappear as her mouth drops open in shock and horror, choking a pathetic sound of despair while her eyes burn with her tears._

_“Cléante!” She screams his name and pushes his form to lie on his back—_

_She screams again, but it is the longest scream she could ever hear from her own mouth as the boy stares at the sky, his mouth slightly open after his last breath escapes him. Lying dead, she sees his shirt dress is soaked with his blood, and continues to be; numerous holes are punctured on his torso and one hole is on his cheek, gun smoke curling out of his broken flesh and blood cakes his skin. Her anguished cries echo the ruined island and mixes with the soft lapping of the desecrated sea, her arms cradling the lifeless body of her younger brother._

_“Regardez! Lá-bas!” (Look! Over there!) A man shouts from somewhere far away. Whether they are there to help her or something worse, Arlette could not care; she only wanted to hold her brother. She continues to cry in mourning as two men hurry over to her and begins to pull her away from her brother._

_She screams in protest, flailing her arms and kicking the sand as another man grabs her brother’s body over to his shoulder and marches to the shore, about to throw his body to the waters. “NON! LIBÉRER MON FRÉRE! LÂCHEZ-LE!” (NO! RELEASE MY BROTHER! LET GO OF HIM!)_

_“Soyez le silence!” (Be silent!) Shouts the man who was cruelly dragging her, his nails digging deep into her skin and grabbing some of her hair like it was a rope for him to tug; with all her strength, she smashes her elbow on her assailant’s face to wriggle free and escape. However, another man tackles her on her hips and wrestles her down and she collapses to the sand with a loud thud, the weight of the man crushing her. He punches her face over and over again, trying to subdue her but she claws at his face and scalp and he winces and howls in pain._

_Then the other man suddenly yells: “ADVERSAIRE! ATTENTION! MONSTRE! MONSTRE! HOMME LOUP!” (AN ENEMY! LOOK OUT! A MONSTER! MONSTER! WOLF MAN!)_

_The man who is beating her disappears as something huge leaps onto him and violently drags him away. A large dog growls and bites the flesh of the man as he screams in horror, the sound of ripping thick flesh was all she heard as her eyes become blurry from the beating she received. She feels her blood coming out of her nose and forehead, dripping profusely while her head aches and throbs from a burning pain of collapsing violently to the sand and being almost crushed. The men who had tried to abduct her are screaming and begging for clemency, but their choking sounds of death could only mean these dogs and the ‘wolf man’ had killed them. She could not stand up but she looks to where her brother should still be lying, and there his body lay, lifeless, the lapping waves reaching to his toes, threatening to wash him away from her forever._

_“Pardonnez-moi.” (Forgive me.) She whispers as her tears streak down her bloodied face._

_She feels another man once again, but she does not have the strength to fight back anymore; but he does not harm her, however, but merely gently scoops her up from the damp sand and carry her to his arms. She is too tired to see his face or even speak to him and ask him why, why this is happening._

_She does, however, see his bright blue eyes—very bright blue eyes that seem to glow even after her vision blurs to blackness and she becomes unconscious…_

Arlette’s beating, fearful heart jolts her body and her eyes flutter open, trying to lift her eyelids from the heavy burden of rest and sleep. Her skin is cold, especially on her forehead, as sheen of sweat covers her and she shivers as she pulls the blanket aside, sitting up from her bed; the warmth of her mattress where her back had laid seems an irony to the cold shiver that crawled up her spine as she recalls her nightmare bit by bit.

The nightmares have become frequent, appearing almost two to three times a week; although not all the same, most of them are composed of her memories of violent events, distorted and warped; each individual memory coalescing with another. She supposes these all became more lucid and frequent a month ago after she and her fellow refugees managed to raid a long caravan carrying necessities and three cartfuls of luxurious and rare items making its way from New York up to Valley Forge. It is a hollow victory for them, however; they lost more than a dozen of their friends and families and not all of Washington’s soldiers, and his guests—political guests, it looked like—who were riding amongst the luxury items, were killed. It will only be a matter of time before a hunting party would be authorized and their refuge will be found out. Perhaps these nightmares are an omen, though she thought that dreaming of death seems unnecessary since even a child can put two and two together that their lives are short.

And that wolf-man, his bright glowing blue eyes… She has heard of stories of a man dressed so menacingly that Washington’s soldiers have thought him a monster, a monster that hunts his men down and lives deep in the woods. No one has truly seen him, at least she and the people she knows has not seen someone like that, although she must admit this scare tactic seems to have its charm; though it is strange, for her, that she would be dreaming such a specific-looking figure of a wolf-man almost every time she sleeps.

Her body shivers momentarily as she tries to erase the image of the wolf-man’s glowing blue eyes staring back at her and the distorted images of her previous home, in Corsica; and, of course, the image of her brother…

Arlette buries her face in her hands, trying not to cry; slowly she stands up from her bed and goes to the ‘washroom’, which is actually a small square corner separated by a very long dark brown cloth hanging down from a piece of wood, serving to cover the user’s modesty. This is her own modified indoor privy, since above her room two modified privies are being shared by a family, four orphan children and two more male adults, so she thought she shouldn’t bother the rooms above anymore except the kitchen and dining area; and also because of the winter, only someone could dare go out and become ill just to do their natural business. It is already quite crowded here in this small, two-storey cottage but she is still worried for her friend, Ayita, a young Cherokee woman whom she shares this humble room with. Her brother, Onacona, who is amongst a small hunting group that decided to get more elk and rabbit hide, has not returned. Ayita had decided to stay on one of the taller buildings that looked on the Frontier’s horizon, searching and waiting there. Most of the taller buildings that make up the perimeter of Charlestown are their makeshift watchtowers; since Charlestown has its own harbor, the shipyards and its other fishermen buildings next to it have also become watchtowers, so their refuge has eyes on both land and water. She hopes Ayita is with good company while she waits for her brother's return.

Inside her washroom, at the right corner, is a bucket with a lid, deep and round enough to fill a person’s refuse; another barrel, bigger and filled with half a supply of clean water, sits closer to the hanging cloth so she could easily reach and lift the cloth’s cover to see who else has entered her room. The big barrel serves both as her makeshift bathtub or simply a barrel full of water. It is still warm and covered by a lid and a wooden basin with a wash rag inside it sits on top of the large barrel.

Taking the wooden basin and lifting the lid, she scoops enough water to fill the basin and puts the lid back; with the rag, she washes her face, neck and arms. This cleaning ritual is done slowly, her eyes on her memories and thoughts of what to do or encounter for the day. She decides not to sleep again and would wait for the sun to signal the new day in Charlestown, their refuge. Done with cleaning herself and also finally filling her smaller barrel of her refuse, she goes to her bed once again and kneels down to it, reaches down underneath her bed and pulls out a worn-out chest filled with her clothes and belongings; opening the lid, she fishes for her day clothes.

Stripping her old nightclothes off, she dons on a slightly tattered, long-sleeved chemise and over it is a thicker, semi wrap-around elk hide with securing knots on its chest which would function as her own crafted stays. She pulls on a pair of thick pantaloons, a gift from Ayita; it is made from another elk hide and sewn two fox furs around it to make it look like a short skirt, and tucks in the chemise. After putting on the two thick woolen stockings, she grabs a pair of expensive Angorian cat fur mitt gloves—one of the few items she salvaged from the previous raid on the long caravan to Valley Forge—and fastens another pair of mitt gloves, this time made of deerskin to add another layer of warmth. After putting on an old red scarf and tying the thin ropes on her own crafted, thicker moccasins, she kneels again to pull another object beneath her bed and procures her day things that are covered in a thick, long blanket. Putting it on her bed, she unties the securing rope around it and lays out its contents: a few pouches containing bartering gold, jewels and wampum; firearm bullets and gunpowder, collected from previous salvages and raids, and a belt with securing rings for the pouches; an old naval pistol; a very small chest containing what was left of her maternal family’s heirloom objects; an intricate bow of Native American craft, though she is unsure from which nation, as she only picked it up from someone’s deserted cabin a few years back. She was gifted by some arrows, but most are salvaged from long deserted Native territories and town shops that craft them. She fastens the belt and loops three pouches to it; takes the pistol to another pouch and secures them on the belt. She opens her small chest and pulls out a small pearl necklace, given to her by her mother when she was a child; she puts it around her neck and makes a short prayer of hope, then she folds and secures the blanket once again and stashes them beneath her bed. Before closing her chest of clothes, she pulls out her favored red fox-fur coat and dons it on. She then loops her bow and arrows around her torso and ascends the stairs out of the basement, her room, and up to the door that would lead to the kitchen.

She stops right before the very door, her fingers grazing the knob of it. She closes her eyes as she fingers the cool stone of the pearl of her necklace and she sighs before opening the door, setting her self to be ready for a new day. Although barely dawn, the eerie grey color of the slow falling snow against the dim light of the morning made her sense that something extraordinary will happen today.

 

Emiliana wakes up to find that the kitchen is already abuzz with activity.

“Mlle. Arlette,” she greets her cheerfully. “ _Bonjour_. How long have you been awake? And what are you making for breakfast?”

Arlette smiles at her as she sets the bowls on the dining table. “Oh, just in time for dawn, I think. The cornmeal mush is brewing on the small pot and a _miel bouillie_ (honeyed porridge) is already very warm on the table. I was also thinking of making pork pasties, for our breakfast to be more…cheerful.”

Emiliana was already getting the hard cups from a box inside a broken cupboard and looks at Arlette with the most empathic look on her face. She catches Arlette’s eyes gazing blankly at the opposite wall, looking melancholic, her lips set in a fine line and her jaw hardening as she clenches her teeth. Emiliana is silent but stutters as she found the right words. “I, well, w-we can make pork pasties if you want, then perhaps deliver some to the men and women in the watchtowers, _oui?_ ”

Arlette manages a smile, but it looks more like a dry smirk. “Well, the pork meat needs to be used sooner or else it will be worm food. Perhaps, we can share the pasties amongst the other townsfolk. Most of them gather in the chapel to pray. Mémé Melisande (granny) could be awake now and should be with the others, too. I bet she would want to critique someone’s cooking.”

Emiliana nods and secretly finds comfort her _sœur aînée_ (elder sister) is somehow happy. She didn’t like the frown she wears almost everyday. Emiliana is glad, though, of mémé Melisande’s presence in the town; not only is she wise but she makes being optimistic and hopeful for a good future seem sane enough still.

The rest of the motley household have finally awaken and they gather in the dining area: Emiliana’s younger brother Antoine, their father Dijon; the four children who share a room with her and Antoine: Lex, Angelique, Harold and Jonathan; one older gentleman by the name of Jamie Colley and Maurice—or Norris, he himself tells them they can call him either names—the last gentleman. All three men share the last room on the first floor while the children are above. Together, all gather around the dining table to eat their meal. With the lack of chairs, Lex, Angelique and Harold are tiny still and sat on Maurice’s, Dijon’s and Arlette’s laps and ate with them. Jamie is concerned with Lex’s lack of appetite as Arlette coaxed him to finish his honeyed porridge, to no avail.

“He only wants to play,” Emiliana observes as, after breakfast, all the children came bounding out the cottage to play on the snow. “But he does get thirsty a lot, from playing too much.”

“All he likes are sweets and small portions of food,” Jamie further comments as the children play snow fight. “I might try to look for cunning ways to trick children into eating more food once I gather some books in the library that didn’t perish in the fire. I will also try to find a medicinal book for us to use.”

Emiliana nods and walks outside the cottage for a while to tell off Harold from eating the snow.

Arlette is silent all throughout, save for a _‘goodbye’_ to Jamie as he goes to what is left of the Charlestown library or even after Maurice has told them that he would be gathering some firewood from Mathias’ place. She continues to dutifully collect the dining tools and places them next to the bucketful of water on the kitchen table for Maurice to clean when he comes back, as he volunteered. Emiliana notices her silence but does not speak of it and merely tells her that she will be sweeping the floors now. As she takes the broom from one of the privy rooms and passes the kitchen area, she sees Arlette taking the bow and arrows that was set aside down the floor and collects the pork pasties into a basket for the guards and mémé Melisande, who practically live in the watchtowers.

“I do not understand,” Emiliana says with concern, “why you have to have such weapons with you. It is frightening and, well…”

Arlette does not look up to her as she puts the last pasty inside. She does, however, give Emiliana the usual instructions. “Always keep an eye out for the children, all right, Emilie? And make sure our own stash of ammunition and weapons are secure, and also record how much food and water we have in case we would need to resupply. And do not ever let Lowell get inside this house, tell the other children about it.”

Ah, yes, Lowell, this refugee’s town drunk and bastard. They exist even on times when the world is mad… Why is he still around if he is just as much of a threat as the King’s soldiers?

Emiliana simply nods at the instructions as Arlette puts on her old red scarf, gives her a kiss on the cheek, a warm smile that meant all the good intentions Arlette has for her and their group, and walks to the door to leave. Emiliana is quiet as the door opens and closes; she sighs out a heavy white puff of breath, imagining the words she wanted to say to Arlette turn into air and dust.

Looking outside a window that sees the front porch, she sees her father trying to shovel the snow that had accumulated on the porch and on the path. He sees Arlette and extends his arm to her, saying something urgent, looking very concerned; Arlette touches his hand that is placed on her shoulder and reassures him. Emiliana has always known that Arlette would be serious when she sets her mind on some idea she wants to tackle, but she and her father are worried that she could become reckless and get into trouble. Or worse…

Emiliana watches as Arlette says her farewell and turns to leave, her shoulders squared and not looking back. Dijon, however, has placed his fingers on his temples, massaging them, but slowly turns his head around to watch his goddaughter leave and into the main part of the old town. Emiliana, full of remorse, goes out of the house and approaches her father; their sad gazes meet and he places an arm around his eldest daughter to comfort her.

“I should have told her,” Emiliana sadly tells him. “I should’ve told her that she should not be guilty. She has no fault at what happened before. Perhaps she wouldn’t leave the house too often.”

Dijon is quiet as he scans the grey clouds above, telling him that there could be a heavy pouring of snow coming. He finally opens his mouth and says, “She is doing this to show them that she is responsible, that she is a better person, Emilie. We know she is guilty that she could not stop Washington’s men from taking your mother and your brother, Lothario, away, and she is shouldering the responsibility of the deaths of other friends… But she is strong, Emilie, she is strong.”

Emiliana knew there should be tears down her eyes, but there is none. She feels too numb, so full of anger instead, of how unfair everything is.

Dijon then tells her to go back inside or she will catch a fever, but Emiliana suddenly dictates that she will help with the shovelling of snow instead. However, as time passes, more snow begins to fall down and they have no choice but to go back inside the cottage. The children continue to play with makeshift toys and such, but Emiliana and Antoine, her youngest brother, dutifully attend to the chores Arlette usually instructs them. Dijon would sit next to a window beside the bolted front door to wait for Jamie’s and Maurice’s return, holding a rifle in his arms, if so needed.

It is still quite morning, but with the dark gray skies and the downpour of snow, the sunlight never permeates enough through the clouds and it appears quite dark outside.

 

Although going to Melisande’s place is only less than half a mile away, Arlette feels it is longer these days, especially when some of the townsfolk’s eyes are upon her. The Charlestown chapel, where Melisande lives, is only a few more yards away but she could feel the townsfolk’s eyes on her. She knew some of them loathe her and some even find her ridiculous, but they judge her silently as they pass by while they do their daily routine. She had not truly conversed with them for a month after they have judged her and a few others for their reckless endeavour on that long caravan of supplies, so a few words of respect and politeness would be the longest sentence that they will give to each other and a passing glance, sometimes awkward but some made of judgment, but no more than those.

“Hullo, beautiful!” called Lowell in his too-ecstatic, brash voice. He swaggers towards her with a big smile on his face, looking pleased that his happy presence is a stark contrast to the monotonous and gray of the morning.

Without turning to see him, Arlette mutters a _‘good morning’_ to him. He trots up to her and places an arm around her waist, pulling her towards him. She does not push him or anything, as she knows this is the _closest_ he will ever do to a woman, particularly to women who knew how to give a sore black eye. His fingers on her waist barely touch, but his presence so close to her is still stepping beyond respect; only her patience is keeping his face less crooked than it is.

“Arlette, love, where y’going?” He asks in what could be a sweet voice coming from a man who is better known for his very sore and insulting language.

“To the chapel,” she nonchalantly says and whips out a pork pasty for him to eat from the basket. “Here, you need to touch something other than living flesh.”

Lowell chuckles in delight and releases her to grab the pasty. He loudly takes a bite and chews while he speaks. “Got to tell ya, love, this is heaven, even though it looks ugly, whatever this is.”

“It’s a pasty,” Arlette corrected him, a hint of annoyance at how he critiqued her cooking and how it looked. Though she had to think that without the proper tools, it _might_ be that Lowell is right how it doesn’t look like a pasty.

He takes another bite of the food and continues to talk to her. “This came from…well, y’know, the meat from Washington’s dandy carriages for his…supplies?”

She rolls her eyes to him with a grimace on her face and he slightly fidgets, slowing down his walk to be behind her and avoid her gaze. _It seems he has difficulty wording the events of it as well._

Lowell had been one of the scavengers who decided to raid the caravan; there had been at least a good twelve of them until they dwindled to five. Lowell was responsible for the deaths of his friend, a name that eludes her memories now, and two younger men who are related to a fatherless family of a widowed wife and four children. They handle the dwindling farmed food that they managed to grow during the spring.

“Yes,” she answers monotonously, after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. “I and Emilie made more, for the others.”

Lowell only gives her a grunt of an answer as he finishes his pasty. They walk in silence all the way to the chapel and notice more of the men and some women of the townsfolk are going inside. Fillan McCarthy, a good friend of hers and one of the most cunning young men in their group, stands a foot away from the entrance of the chapel, his gaze focused and hard on the surroundings, standing guard. When his eyes fall upon her figure, he gives her a wave of his hand and beckons the two of them to come inside.

“What is going on?” she asks in a hushed tone.

“An impromptu meeting,” Fillan answers urgently. “I _was_ going to your cottage and call for you and the other adults, but James made me guard here. The council says not everyone needs to be inside. The other guards are still on their stations so the children left behind will be all right and safe. Glad you two made it.”

Lowell smirks. “I suppose I could be here. Something could be interestin’ and might make me from snoozin’ on one o’ the pews.”

Arlette smirks at his comment as they enter the chapel. The last man, John O’ Brien, a massive but very quiet man who turns more to his chores as a carpenter than on the people he is with, closes the doors with Fillan.

“Thanks,” says the young man and John nods in return, followed by a rare smile.

The townsfolk all choose their seats and make conversation as they wait for the ‘council’ to come out to do the order of business. Arlette searches for Ayita, looking at one face after another as each individual greets and converses with one another; she found her waving her hand at her and beckons her to sit next to her, on a pew beside a tall glass window overlooking a row of empty (or it seems so) houses and shops. Hurrying, Arlette trots to her and envelops her friend in her arms.

“Ayita,” she murmurs her name as Ayita embraces back. “How are you?”

“I am all right, Arlette,” she reassures, her arms around Arlette are wounded tightly. “But there is still no sign of them. Some of the men went around the hill of Breed but went back quickly. They fear the men of Washington just as they fear the wolves outside.”

Slowly letting go of her friend, Arlette flourishes her large basket and gives it to her. “Here. For the guards on the watchtowers. And also for you and Lady Melisande.”

Ayita’s eyes are twinkling in appreciation. “Thank you. Lady Melisande keeps me company, and me and the other guards would also sometimes tell stories. I listened to Fillan’s stories sometimes, tales of what his sister used to tell him.”

“I believe you are comfortable above this chapel, then,” Arlette assumes, gazing at her friend and seeing if it is true. She would’ve moved with Emiliana and the children, but there is simply no room even though Emiliana would try to fit them all together so she would have company. It isn’t company, however, what Arlette was hoping; she hopes that Ayita would move back with her to have a comfortable bed, a better roof (or ceiling, as it would be a basement she will share the room with) and, most importantly, safer companions. Arlette knows judgment is based on assumptions and prejudices, but Fillan and mémé Melisande will not always be there to be with her. Ayita may have moved in mémé Melisande, but from what she had told Arlette before and from Fillan’s conversations, Ayita sleeps next to the men and fewer women in the upper floors of the chapel’s tower (or sharing their lack of sleep, as Ayita would wake from the crack of dawn to see if anyone familiar has approached the boundaries of Charlestown; if it had to be her brother or one of his previous companions, she would be there to see).

Ayita flinches and takes time to answer her. “I am fine. I am contributing, what with duties to look out for danger and such. I am not helpless.”

Arlette’s gaze lowers and nods slowly, her lips appearing straight as a line and her jaw setting harder. She should not worry; Ayita _is_ far more skilled and independent, although her concern for her friend still gnaws at her.

Ayita speaks again, but in a more playful tone. “You should worry about Fillan. He seems to take guarding duties much more seriously! I would see him already at one of the posts where I would be, peering through a spyglass. I teased him before if he sees a naked woman out in the fields! You should’ve seen him become so pink!”

“Oh Ayita!” Arlette exclaims exuberantly. “A naked woman in the midst of winter? Perhaps you and Fillan are mad from lack of rest, joking like that!” The two women laugh and tried to cover their mouths if they sound too loud. They continue to talk of other things: the things (or people) the watch guards have seen, the welfare of what little of cattle and some sheep they have; the overall supply of food and water; most significantly, the reason behind the impromptu meeting.

“They have received new information from the rebels in Old John’s Town,” Ayita says, her tone much more hushed than what is already her quiet voice. “The scouts will share more news when the council comes out, but the main news is that Washington is further reinforcing his fort in Monmouth and he has gained supporters from the leaders in England and even France.”

Arlette’s eyes widens, silent at this piece of news. If France and other nations are now accepting Washington as another sovereign and are solidifying their acknowledgments by sending some of their troops here, it simply means Washington’s influence has gotten stronger. And France…

_So Corsica, my home, is now against me…_

“But we heard before from the soldiers who were near a native settlement say Washington and his  cohorts plan to colonize England and rule the other lands in Europe…”

“Perhaps the foreign troops are spies,” Ayita answers; a hint of hope seems to emanate from her voice. “Once they realize Washington is not who he seems to be, then they might come here and stop him! They will help us.”

Arlette closes her eyes and shakes her solemnly. “No, Ayita. No war can truly help anyone. It might add more to the already weary battles _we_ are facing.”

Ayita glumly replies an “oh” and stares out through the window and she shivers. “It is so cold, Arlette.”

Arlette tilts her head to one side, confused; she has seen Ayita frolick on a pile of snow before as she played with the orphan children. Putting an arm around her friend to give her own warmth instead, Arlette whispers, “It won’t be for long. The winter will end.”

The ‘council’ enters through a door in the west wing and slowly the chatter of the folks inside the chapel die down. Taking their seats, one of them calls everyone to settle down as they prepare to start the meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some info:  
> *Charlestown is located in the east of Great Piece Hills. Yes, it;s that town where Connor was running and escaping cannonball fire while the battle at Breed's Hill and Bunker Hill are happening.  
> *Dijon's here, an OC, along with his eldest child, Emiliana and youngest, Antoine. Their middle brother, Lothario, and Dijon's wife are abducted and may be slaves under King Washington's regime.  
> *Maurice is Norris, the miner...yes, and Jamie Colley, too. Other Assassin's Creed 3 characters are Fillan McCarthy (the Robber) and John O'Brien (the Carpenter, if I'm not mistaken).  
> *Ayita and her brother, Onacona, are Cherokee; the objects, behaviours, stories, etc. that they will share, exhibit or have are subject to research available to me, to fully portray an American ethnicity I'm not familiar (of course, this goes the same to other characters such as Arlette and her family, who are Corsicans, and the historic setting they're in [albeit an alternate history], but the Native Americans, I feel I should be more cautious and sensitive of).
> 
> Anyway, I'm sorry for the long wait, I am not actually just busy with school but with other ambitious fanfiction projects and ideas, besides Assassin's Creed. I'm currently with my collab-writer, Gregster, once again to create (drum roll!) a DmC Devil May Cry fanfiction, le gasp!
> 
> Okay that is it! Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> This story is loosely inspired by the Little Red Riding Hood and the precursor of how my and my friend's OC, Arlette, was created.
> 
> When we were just starting out to play AC3, news and trailers of the DLC Tyranny of King Washington was everywhere and me and my friend started to brainstorm a fan fiction. We still didn't know the whole story of TOKW, but we did it nevertheless. Unfortunately, as we played more of the AC3 game and walkthroughs appeared of the TOKW, we realize our story was waaaaay too out-of-synch with AC3 and TOKW's plots. SO we abandoned this and started working on Arlette de Badeau's (our OC) background and her role and eventually did 'In Louisiana With Love' while I alone wrote 'The Urge to Knit'; both fanfics are snippets of a veeery long story, our own sequel for Connor if you will (since Connor ain't gettin' a sequel :( ).
> 
> But as we're still finishing the next chapter for 'In Louisiana...', I thought I'd bring back this old fanfic back, revise it a little and made it loosely alluding to Little Red Riding Hood [but it's not prominent, the allusions, and of course, it's obvious who the wolf is and who Red is here in the story].
> 
> This story will run on four chapters only and I hope you enjoy this!


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